


The Surprise

by wearitcounts (Sher_locked_up)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Kissing, M/M, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 13:56:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1107659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sher_locked_up/pseuds/wearitcounts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg tries to surprise Mycroft. </p><p>He really shouldn't have expected to be able to keep secrets from the British government.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Surprise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mydwynter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydwynter/gifts).



> Happy Birthday, Bran!
> 
> I wrote this as both a birthday gift for the fantastic **mydwynter** , whose fics you should be reading if you aren't already, and as a part of **The Longest Week Drabble Fest**. Happy New Year/Sherlock Day, everybody!

It’s not that Greg’s really opposed to breaking the rules; he consults with Sherlock Holmes, after all. It’s just that work is work, and this is personal, and he hasn’t been dating the British government quite long enough to get a bead on whether or not what he’s got planned will be a giant exercise in futility.

It’s just that he hasn’t been dating the British government long  _at all_ , and he  _wants_.

He’s spoken with someone from Mycroft’s office, the one who calls herself Anthea, he thinks, but he isn’t sure; regardless, he spoke with whomever he happened to be able to get on the line at the moment, and she assured him, voice all sleek and smooth like the flanks of a thoroughbred, that Mycroft would indeed to be coming home that evening, no later than half eight, and that he did not in fact have any pressing engagements sooner than nine o’clock the following morning. He knows better than to assume he’d have any luck trying to break into Mycroft Holmes’s residence, so he’s sitting just outside, on the steps, bottle in hand and grey woollen scarf wrapped round his neck, hiding the lower half of his nervous smile. It’s eight twenty-three, and the bag of takeaway he’s set down to his left is still steaming.

At eight twenty-seven, a car pulls up, black and shiny and more quiet than Greg’s heart as it pounds against his ribs.

“Gregory.” His name on Mycroft’s tongue is still a bit of a miracle, a tiny revelation that he hasn’t been imagining it, that the past few weeks have happened, and they were good ones. The car pulls away as silently as it arrived.

“I checked with your—with the office.” Greg isn’t sure how to refer to the perfectly groomed set of women who glide effortlessly around Mycroft, fulfilling needs before they’ve even given a thought to existing, smoothing over national crises with the softest caress of their deft and lethal palms. They seem to defy classification.

“So you did,” Mycroft replies.

“Ah,” Greg sets down the bottle next to the takeaway, stands, lifts his face out of the nest of his scarf and scrubs a hand across his mouth and jaw. “They told you.”

“That is their job, yes.”

“They could have at least let you be surprised!”

“I pay them a great deal of money to ensure that I never am.” Mycroft moves then, finally, walks up the first two steps, crowds into Greg’s personal space and lifts his chin only slightly, just so that his face is right underneath Greg’s.

Greg doesn’t back away. “I know you said you’d let me know when you were available—”

“Gregory,” he breathes, and the warm, damp air hits Greg’s lips and he licks them involuntarily. “Do you happen to have your mobile handy?”

Greg reaches into his pocket, pats it, pats all his pockets, on his coat, his trousers, back and front. He turns quickly to gaze at the space where he’s just been sitting. “I—”

Mycroft smiles with just one side of his mouth and brings up an elegant hand between them. His long, pale fingers are wrapped around Greg’s mobile. “I’d have been here earlier, only you’d left this at the Yard.”

Mycroft is still so close, so incredibly near him, and all he can smell is crisp aftershave and cool cotton and  _Mycroft_ , and he holds Mycroft’s gaze, moving to pocket his phone.

“Shouldn’t you check your messages?” Mycroft asks.

Greg pulls his hand back up, holds his mobile between their chests and stabs at it. “It’s from you.”

“Yes.”

Greg swipes at the screen, entering the four digits of his passcode and bringing up his unread texts.

_Available this evening. Bring dinner. I’ll see to dessert._  
 _MH_

He checks the time of the text. Five seventeen.

He’d called Mycroft’s office at half five. From the landline. Whilst his mobile lay unattended in his desk drawer.

“I—you.”

“Yes,” Mycroft repeats, and then before Greg can think of another thing to say, moves up one more step, presses himself up against Greg’s chest and stomach and thighs, wraps one long-fingered hand around Greg’s neck and closes the distance between their mouths, pulling and sucking on Greg’s lips with his own, sliding his tongue just inside to tease at the tip and along the underside of Greg’s. He pulls back with a small, wanton little nibble on Greg’s lower lip.

“So,” Mycroft purrs, and it sends a jolt of something filthy straight down to Greg’s groin, “would you like to come inside?”


End file.
